the thing about thread

I am watching every actor absolutely own
every line of my life. I am the protagonist to be pitied,
whose brain lives in a well prepared place…
but I don’t damn use it (correctly).

I can list your faults
and find they are nothing to your
strengths. I can read this list but cannot connect
its logic points in such a way
that they lead to my heart.

I am a fool;
I am a fool;
I am a fool,
all for a simple spark.

In my closet I have
yards and lengths of twine.
Stacks and wads of hues
heaped into all
crevices and corners;
each a different colour,
representing ones I’ve
strung along like you.

You shine but I can’t see.
Irony does so often follow me
like thread after a needle.
You asked if your colour was gold,
and I weep to reply,
yes.

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